


I'd Cross Every Line (for you)

by maxxrose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Angst, Awesome John Stilinski, Derek Hale Has Feelings, Derek would burn down the world to get to his mate, Diplomatic Stiles Stilinski, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, F/M, Human Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Military Commander Derek Hale, Prince Stiles Stilinski, Protective Pack, Royal Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wolf Derek Hale, and is also Derek's anchor, but more because he's a King, sickly sweet moments between sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23679457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxrose/pseuds/maxxrose
Summary: Things are going great for Stiles.His mate, Military Commander Derek Hale, continues to be the hottest piece of ass a lanky, spastic guy like Stiles could ever hope to land, even in his wildest dreams. His best friend Scott, is advancing his career alongside Derek as a faithful protector of their Kingdom in Beacon Hills. He makes his parents proud (occasionally) by being the best damn Trade and Foreign Affairs Minister slash responsible Prince the Kingdom has ever seen, with a badass circle of friends he trusts with his life.So statistically speaking, things can only get worse from this point, right?Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when they do, manifesting in the form of a seriously terrifying rogue band of Alphas under the command of a man only known as Deucalion (who the hell named this guy? A bucket of bleach?) threatening everything Stiles holds dear, including the fate of his beloved Kingdom.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Jackson Whittemore/Danny Mahealani, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 23
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

He awakens slowly, squeezing his eyes shut against the warm ray of sunshine peeking through the silk curtains of his room. The warmth of his bed soothes him, floods onto his skin and blankets his face with the cozy lull of calm and stability he knows is _safety._

Then Stiles cracks open one eye, and comes face to face with a pair of glowing hazel eyes tinted with green flecks he knows as well as the back of his own hand. Hell, he would know these eyes even if he were blindfolded and blind.

With a jolt of embarrassment, he quickly realizes his hand was mushed up in his face, pulling back his lips and oh _God,_ he's even drooling a little onto his pillow. To an unfortunate outsider, it would appear Stiles was trying to eat his own fist during a particularly heady session of REM induced sleep. 

Derek looks at him, amused, at his unsuspecting, half asleep face. "Even in sleep, you are befitting of the Prince title."

"Suck an egg, Der." is Stiles' witty comeback. 

He just _woke up._ Half his face is still slack from slumber. His brain is barely functioning. Derek Hale has no right to question his sleeping habits when Stiles is unable to defend himself. Aren't those the laws of his Kingdom, or something? Give mercy to the helpless? Even when the helpless in question is swathed in clouds of fluffy blankets with an armful of contented werewolf?

Derek's arm, lain carelessly across Stiles' chest, tightens. "You know I don't like eggs."

"You don't like a lot of things," Stiles reminds him, opening his mouth in an outrageous yawn that has Derek making an adorably scrunched up face that suggests, in fact, Stiles has horrid morning breath. Whatever. He's a Prince. "Thank Werewolf God I'm not one of those things."

"You'd be better off thanking the moon, Stiles," Derek murmurs as he snuggles into Stiles a little closer. The warmth his werewolf is giving off could rival a bonfire. Derek is a heating machine, and has saved Stiles on many occasions when the air is biting cold and he needs to pee in the night but the marble floor is too cold to put his feet on so he wrangles his grumpy werewolf until Derek piggybacks him to the toilet. 

Stiles would do anything for Derek, in return. 

"I don't want to get up," Stiles moans into Derek's neck, nuzzling closer so he can feel the familiar tickle of his mate's scruffy chin that he insists is _not_ stubbles. "Can we just stay here? If anyone comes to look for us do your growly thing and make them shit their pants and leave us alone."

Derek makes a low noise in his throat that sounds a lot like agreement. "I'll growl, you talk at them until they have no choice but to leave. Sounds like a plan."

Derek all curled up around him makes him feel warm, impossibly happy and safe, like nothing could ever touch either of them. Unless it's his parents. Then Derek and Stiles are certainly under threat because if there's one thing Stiles is sure of, is that Claudia and John Stilinski are fearless in the face of terrifying, massive werewolves and are thus immune to his mate's boundless charm. But he burrows in closer anyway, wraps his hands around Derek's muscled shoulder and draws a snuffling breath against the musky scent of Derek's collarbones, closing his eyes as Derek blows a warmth breath over his head. 

"I have no idea what you're implying about my undefeated prowess in conversation there, Der."

"Your undefeated prowess, huh?" Derek says, in a husky voice that has the hair on the back of his neck standing up, much like the dick in his loose pajama pants because _yeah,_ the effect Derek has on him is unreal. Even after years of being each other's true mates, it never gets old to have Derek pull his sexy voice on him. 

"You take anything I say and make it sound effortlessly hot," Stiles complains because his heart is stuttering in his chest _again._ He props himself up to his elbows, lays his head on one hand, and tries to glare (it comes off more like a weak stare) at his mate. "Tell me. How is that fair? You could say 'I want apple' and the apple itself would be like, _yeah, take me right here._ I say the same thing and literally, the apple could grow legs and tiny march the fuck away. My dirty talk is—"

"Awful," Derek interrupts, and fakes a full body shudder. "I've been through it. I never thought I'd make it out to the other side."

 _Laying it on a bit thick,_ Stiles hums, narrows his eyes dangerously as he can manage in spite of being cuddled against Derek's chest and wrapped in a giant blanket. It's difficult, okay, but he likes to think he makes it work. "Fine. Okay. See if I care. You're never hearing me say, Derek, your ass is so munchable I could just eat it right there in the throne room and uh, my parents would probably be like, okay, what's happening? But they accept it in the end because your ass is just _so—"_ and Stiles promptly shuts up, because Derek is tilting his face and capturing his lips in a tender, sweet kiss that usually translates to, _shut the fuck up, babe._

"That was terrible," Derek says honestly right to his face with those gorgeous hazel eyes. Right after he just kissed Stiles. Wow. Way to ruin a guy's dream and stomp on the pieces. "Stiles, next time maybe don't mention your parents in the same sentence as 'ass' and 'munchable'?"

"I don't see why that's an issue," Stiles says and pretends to peer outside the window for a flying bird.

There are no birds.

"So you see the problem." And Derek is rolling them, bringing Stiles onto his other side and half on his chest, peppering soft kisses onto Stiles' collarbones, neck, cheeks, and Stiles is letting out a laugh as Derek smiles and tightens his hold in a brief hug before kicking his legs out the bed and sliding out the bed, leaving Stiles in a crumpled heap under the blankets like a threatened armadillo. 

"No," Stiles whines, burying his face in his pillow. "If you start being productive, _I'll_ have to start being productive. Don't do it, Der, don't start the chain reaction."

"Your Kingdom awaits, Your Royal Highness." Is all Derek says teasingly before he vanishes into the adjoining bathroom, just in time to escape the arc of trajectory from the pillow that is conveniently missing beside Stiles' head.

Stiles isn't kidding when he says it's a chain reaction. Once the sound of water running stops and Derek steps out the bathroom with a clean, freshly shaven face, he starts putting on his black turtle neck, shouldering on his patented leather jacket and buttoning his pants. Stiles watches all of this with increasing dread, then at the weight of Derek's stare on his back, is forced to move. First, he rolls out of bed and ends up sprawled half on the floor, one leg hanging off in a precarious angle that gets him a crinkle of eyebrows from Derek. Then he groans, long and loud. He sighs when he musters enough willpower to drag himself to the bathroom, and when Derek, the lovely bastard, hands him a towel to dry his face with, Stiles really has to try hard not to scream bloody murder into it. 

Derek just cocks one magnificent eyebrow at him studiously.

Because screaming in the Prince's bedroom is not a good idea. 

They learnt that the hard way. Snickering, Stiles remembers the particularly raunchy night where he and Derek had been rolling around in the sheets, and the memory sends pleasant shivers up his spine. Derek had discovered a new sensitive spot on his mate's body that sent him exploding in maniacal peals of laughter, uncontrolled and _loud._ It had then developed into yelps and breathy screams, especially when Derek had begun kissing him in some _very_ responsive places. 

The guards had burst into the bedroom, guns drawn, eyes wild and scanning for any threats in every bedroom corner. Stiles had released a very, totally, masculine scream and disappeared under the covers while Derek had wolfed out right above him, shielding Stiles behind his massive body and snarling violently at the intrusion, eyes Alpha blood red. One of the guards, Kenny, because yes to make matters worse Stiles _knew_ every single one of his guards, Kenny had locked eyes with a very horrified Stiles, face going pale like walking in on Derek and Stiles was going to be seared into his brain forever. By the time it took Derek to calm the fuck down and melt back into his human features, Kenny was already half out the door at the Alpha's behest. Derek had spent the rest of the night clutching at Stiles tightly, while Stiles had tried not to faint from overheating. 

"What are you smirking about?" Derek asks curiously, arms winding around his waist and successfully drawing his attention back. 

Stiles turns to him and grins, settling comfortably back in his mate's arms. "You remember that night Kenny busted into our room?"

"Oh, how could I forget," Derek says, a bleak light entering his eyes. "For one month Kenny wouldn't look me in the eye."

"I said we were just having a tickle fight!"

Derek gives him a look. "Yeah. Like two adults in a loving relationship ever say that and mean it."

"Aw," Stiles coos, jumping into Derek's chest and pressing into his space, throwing his arms around his mate's muscular shoulders, ignoring the blatant huff in his face that blows the hair out of his eyes. "You think we're in a loving relationship? Der. You're going to make me cry. You sweet-talker."

Derek rolls his eyes, kisses Stiles on the nose gruffly. Well, his mate likes to think he's gruff. Stiles really knows Derek is softer than boiled oatmeal, behind his rough and all _I'm the Alpha fear me_ exterior. His wolf then gently pushes him away, albeit lovingly, and helps Stiles pull on a grey collar shirt and his favorite dark blue blazer, patting him down like he needs to reassure himself before Stiles leaves the room. Stiles softens at the gesture, heart swelling because _damn_ is he the luckiest bastard in the universe, and brings his hands to cup Derek's beautiful face and gaze right into his favorite pair of confused looking hazel eyes. 

"Have a good day, honey," Stiles murmurs and presses a sweet kiss on the end of Derek's nose, grins. It's a muscle memory now. He smiles all the time when Derek is near, half to make up for the fact Derek doesn't smile that often, and the other half is purely because he can't fucking help himself. 

Derek's eyebrows pull off an affronted look, capable of more emotion than a gorilla who can sign. Then he relaxes into Stiles' hold, like he never wants to leave and honestly Stiles _gets_ it because he really doesn't want Derek to leave his side either. But hey. They both have jobs, important ones, and they can't do it glued to each other. 

"What's on your plate today?" Stiles asks, giving Derek an affectionate rub on the vulnerable spot between his collarbone and neck that only Stiles can touch, preens a little at the pleased rumbling that vibrates through Derek's chest.

He goes and rummages through his desk and fishing out his sleek leather folder with the morning's briefing in it. It's full of confidential files his parents have given him on the Kingdom's activities, mostly charter stuff, some legislative documents he has to review. Stiles is being groomed to run a Kingdom, and wow was his mother not lying when she said most of the legalities involved with being in power would bore him to death. 

"Nothing too much," Derek replies, heading over to his side of the room and clicking open the armory cabinet.

Literally every weapon inside is designed to make it through a steel door or an elephant and destroy body organs with little challenge. Crossbows, tactical guns, knives, a machine gun, several stealth weapons Stiles has never seen before are all hanging off clean partitions inside the cabinet. One compartment houses wolfbanes bullets, all wrapped tightly in leather inside a small box and Stiles knows that it puts Derek on edge sometimes, the smell and the look of it. From what Derek's told him, the deadliness of the bullets makes his wolf uncomfortable. 

Derek hadn't approved when Stiles said it made his wolf _angsty,_ so like two good mates, they compromise and agree to settle on 'uncomfortable'. 

Derek continues, taking a gleaming tactical knife from the collection and slipping into his jacket. Derek always carries at least four different weapons on his body at all times. Stiles thinks it might be an overreaction, because sometimes his mate seems to forget he has real gut-searing claws, fur, and badass fangs. "I have a meeting with some wolves who are supposed to be joining the Specialized Forces. They're apparently top-notch, grade A combateers and your mother thinks it's a good idea to have some more firepower in our military." 

"Don't let Erica take the first nip at them," Stiles says with a mirthful chuckle. "They'll be out the door in a flash."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so cruel," Derek snorts lightly. "I'll throw Isaac and Romain at them first, then Boyd, and if they can handle that, they _still_ probably won't get past Erica."

"Boy, you give them Scott and they're a sure thing." 

Derek shakes his head, right eyebrow lifting in what translates as a halfblown smile in normal language. "I don't want a sure thing. I want wolves who are going to earn it. They're going to need my respect if they want to advance."

Stiles hugs the briefcase to his chest and walks with Derek to the ornate door of their bedroom, and pauses to look at his mate fondly. "Sourwolf, you're the hardest man to impress I've known, and yet one of the ones people want to the most." and at the pleased curl of Derek's eyebrows, Stiles interprets that to mean, _aw shucks, Stiles, that means a lot to me and I'm going to fuck you real hard tonight to thank you for it._

Stiles opens the door, nodding as the two guards in front of his room bows respectfully. He whirls on his feet to curl his hands around Derek's neck and presses a kiss to his mouth. It's chaste, soft and sweet, like a preview for when they see each other again. Derek presses himself close, pulls back, lips red and flushed as he stares at Stiles with a small, loving smile on his face. 

"I love you," Stiles says, gently nudging his mate out into the hallway, because if he doesn't he knows neither of them will leave. "Be safe."

"I love you too," Derek says, touches Stiles' face tenderly to mean _I will._

Stiles watches as his mate then briskly strides towards the left hallway, purpose in his steps and in the powerful curves of his body. And then because he can, he briefly admires the fantastic ass before it vanishes around the bend. Stiles lets his shoulders fall, giving a small sigh as he leans against the doorway, mulling in his own thoughts for a long moment. His father will be waiting in the private library, no doubt preparing lessons on how to properly manage the Kingdom's trade routes and economy. Maybe even some financial lessons if he's lucky. 

But then Stiles gets to go to his _real_ job. As a Trade Minister, diplomatic emissary of his Kingdom, working in foreign relations and affairs, and it's where he can do his favorite thing: research the hell out of a specific topic, and use it to destroy someone else in an opposing argument. 

* * *

On his way to the private library on the Royal floor, he makes sure to stop in and greet his mother, who lounges in a spacious glass room with rustic window planes and light pouring in on all sides. Queen Claudia Stilinski glances up from her stack of papers, regal in the morning light but also familiarly casual in her old floral printed blouse and peach skirt. When she sees him, a smile identical to his spreads on her face, and Stiles leans in to kiss his mother quickly on the forehead as he takes a shot at the papers spread on the table. 

"Morning, Mom," Stiles says, reaching over and popping a freshly baked madeleine in his mouth as he scans the paper. "Oh God. That's good. Did Laura bake these again?"

"Morning," Claudia says, smiling as she moves the madeleines closer to him, bless her. "Of course. You know she won't let us eat anyone else's treats."

"What's this," Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes as he taps the paper. "Is that confirmation that Elkton Hills will allow us to expand our trade routes pass their Wellvray river? Because dad told me we need it if we're going to increase the food production to a maximized standard this year."

Claudia blinks at him calmly. "Yes, Stiles, it is. In return, Elkton Hills wants one fourth of the share."

"Can they do that?" Stiles says dubiously, stealing under madeleine and stuffing it in his mouth in a frantic way that has his mother shaking her head at him like _Stiles, that's not very prince-like._ "Beacon Hills is the core of the Kingdom, and we're basically a sovereign nation, they still abide by our rules, don't they?"

"Our rules, maybe," Claudia replies evenly, taking the paper and stacking it back into a pile. "But not completely under our control. Remember, there are only four of us that make up this Kingdom. Beacon Hills, Attica Hills, Cowan Hills, and—"

"Elkton Hills," Stiles finishes, because he knows this by heart. His father's drilled it into their lessons since he was five and old enough to take notes. 

"Right," and by the glint in Claudia's eye, she knows it too. "So it's only natural they want to secure their food harvest this year. A lot of the produce comes into Beacon Hills because we're the capital, especially the surplus. Elkton Hills trade routes runs by the Wellvray river, and you know that leads to—"

"The Northern Territories," Stiles says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes dramatically. "Yes, Mom, I know. They're important because we have investments in their developing cities and cementing the bond between our nations can only make us stronger, and so will their trade plans."

"Very good." Claudia praises, brown eyes warm. "Now why can't you show this level of understanding when your father quizzes you?"

 _Ah._ Stiles knew it. His dad _tattles._

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Because he gives me _quizzes,_ Mom. I single-handedly closed a deal between Beacon Hills and Cowan Hills last month that let us exercise full capacity in our energy reactors stationed near one of their towns, and got permission for a joint research team. Dad _knows_ I can do this, I've done this job for years. Quizzes, Mom! Seriously."

He pauses, softening as his mother reaches forward to take one of his hands. She squeezes, like she understands just how infuriating his father can be sometimes. But Stiles gets it, he does, because being King is no easy matter, and his father is constantly under pressure from his Ministers and Advisers to do the best he can do. And Stiles would be lying if he said that his two role models, the heroes in his stories, weren't his parents. 

"He just wants to make sure you're okay," Claudia says gently. "You know, I wish your Grandma was here to see you grow up," and her hand loosens from his and goes to rest lightly on his cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbones. "She'd see the kind of man you're becoming and she'd be _so proud._ Like we are."

"Well, I can't take all the credit," Stiles shrugs light heartedly and has to pretend like the remark doesn't make him internally beam with pride, because let's face it, Stiles is thirsty for any and all compliments. "I had the best teachers."

"You remind me so much of her," Claudia continues, eyes adopting a hazy sheen like she's recalling something in the past. Her gaze goes dark with sorrow and Stiles bites his lip in sympathy, as his mother gives a mournful little sigh. "You two could have been twins. Always spastic, full of energy, could talk an earful of anyone anytime—"

" _Spastic?_ Earful? You know, Derek said the same thing about my talking this morning, I'm starting to _think_ you guys have some sort of conspiracy or sabotagery in the works," Stiles declares, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance of this clear show of (worrying) camaraderie between his mother and his mate. They have clearly been working in cahoots. 

"Proving my point," Claudia finishes, eyes crinkling in a familiar smile and Stiles can't bring himself to protest any further. "Your Grandma was a little strange like that too."

"Yeah, you've told me her stories a hundred times. Grandma liked talking to herself. Grandma liked picking up random things from the forest. Grandma liked hoarding weird junk that no one else was allowed to touch. I fail to see any instance of how _I_ am weird like that, because to my knowledge, I don't go into forests." And then Stiles takes a breath, tips his head and tells his mom seriously, "Because that's how stupid people die in the movies. When they decide to go on a walk in a dark forest. I'm not stupid."

His mother stares at him, amused. "But you admit you do everything else except the forest shenanigans."

Forest shenanigans. Stiles doesn't think he'll ever get tired of his mom using colorful vocabulary like that.

"Whatever," he sniffs, blowing her a theatrical kiss and sauntering out towards the door. "Grandma is a part of me anyway," and he turns around to wave his pointer finger at his mother, showing off the heavy, antique brass ring that used to belong to his grandmother snug around his finger. The strange patterns carved in the surface glint in the half light, and for a brief second, the ruby jewel in one of the patterns glows mischievously, catching his eye.

Stiles admires the ring for a moment, then looks back at his mom and hollers a good-bye before barreling up the hallway to find his father in the library. 

And collides right into Talia Hale.

Stiles flounders for ten straight seconds, letting out a garbled yelp of surprise before Talia moves up to him, hands settling strongly on his shoulders and stops him in place before Stiles dislocates something. Derek's mother is one of the Stilinski's most trusted advisers, close friends with Claudia, and she takes care of state affairs and helps run the Kingdom. She looks like a carbon copy of Derek too, if he was older, beautiful in a Goddess Warrior Princess-like way (he kind of is though) and had taken up a level in badass. Her dark hair cascades around her shoulders in loose curls, even darker eyes sharp and clever as they pin Stiles down in his spot. 

Oh God. He's trapped. 

Maybe if he screams, Derek will rescue him in time. 

"Sorry, Talia," Stiles squeaks out, like running into people isn't one of the things he does daily. 

Talia looks at him like she's thinking of knocking some well-deserved sense into him, in a heartwarming godmother-and-son way. "Stiles," she greets, lips twitching like she's trying not to smile. "I think us meeting this way is getting a little old, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Stiles says sheepishly, trying to back away. "Just trying to keep the spark alive, Mrs. Hale."

"My son's a lucky man," and there's fond exasperation in her tone, he recognizes that, it's what he evokes in Derek and Dad and his own mother the most, "go on now. I know you're late to your father's lesson." Derek has her eyes. Inherited her attitude as a stickler to the rules, too. He misses his mate. 

Stiles offers her a dopey grin. "Tell Mom I said hello," and then he takes off running again.

"No running in the hallways, Stiles!" Talia calls after him, her voice sort of resigned and if Stiles had looked back, he's sure she looks like that too. 

Stiles enters the private library, and is reminded again of why it's his favorite place in the whole palace. Because it's on a secluded wing where civilization can't touch him, sure, but it's mostly because it's all warm cherry wood and squishy, expensive leather chairs that envelope your butt the second you sink into it. There's soft light, books on books and even more books, and there's even a ladder than runs up to a small second tier of the library. The whole place smells like _books_ and Stiles loves it. 

He spots his father curled up by one of the mahogany shelves, on the floor, eyes fixed in an expression of pure concentration at whatever he's reading. Stiles pops down lightly down the stairs, and his Dad looks up and says, " _Finally_ ," in a mildly irritated voice like Stiles didn't just crash into Talia Hale in his haste to reach his father. It's like Dad doesn't even _know_ the effort it took. 

"Sorry I'm late," Stiles huffs out, settling on the floor cross-legged across from his father. "What are we reading about today?"

John Stilinski gives his head a little shake, and shows Stiles the leather bound cover. "You're our Trade Minister. It's a book on commerce and how to regulate external trade, and this," he says, passing him a worn out book. "is on Foreign Affairs. I know, you've probably read all of this and know a lot more than I do." His father looks at him with something like pride in his eyes, and Stiles grins back. "I probably don't even have anything to teach you anymore."

"Of course you do," Stiles scoffs and gently touches his Dad's shoulder. "I still have _zero_ knowledge on how to run a Kingdom. Zilch."

Dad lets out a small groan. "Stiles."

"Yeah, I know, I know, can't have the Prince joking about not being able to run his Kingdom."

"Did I teach you about ethics and morality yet?" his dad asks, green eyes searching him. "I did, didn't I. You know how to make decisions that waver between right and wrong, and remember that violence is—"

"Never the answer," Stiles echoes the phrase his dad has repeated to him a thousand times. "Unless there's no other choice and they're going to hurt someone else, lock their ass down and make sure they don't get back up. But legally," he adds, waggling a finger at his father's pleased face. "Always make sure it's legal. And fair."

Dad sighs, "I could have raised you worse. You're going to make a great King one day."

"Wow," Stiles says, stifling a laugh as he drags out the word, because his dad saying that makes his goddamn day, "If I knew the key to your approval was to parrot the stuff you say back to you, I could make a living selling these state secrets to Mom and the Kingdom."

John narrows his eyes like he's going to reach over and thump his son on the head. "I'm so lucky I have a business savvy son."

"You betcha." Stiles grins, takes the Foreign Affairs book he's read since he was fifteen and crams it under his armpit. "Lydia and Allison are probably on their way here because we have to review some documents for the meeting with some officers from the Northern Territories who say they've had some trouble with the Western Coastline lately, some reports about how there's political unrest of some sort happening in Western Territories and interfering with their trade plans. They want us to decide if it's a threat."

Something tightens in his dad's face, that has Stiles perking up in attention. "The Western Territories. Talia came to me yesterday, some of her scouts are saying there's some sort of uprising happening in one of the suburban towns. Apparently some werewolf wants to take office, I still haven't gotten all the details."

"Maybe it's just a power struggle?" Stiles ventures uneasily, because whatever has his dad wary is something to be suspicious of, but power struggles among werewolves do happen from time to time, and end as quickly as they begin. "The Trahans are more than capable of sorting out any sort of conflicting werewolf politics down there."

The Trahans are the dominant werewolf pack in the Western Territories, and Stiles actually knows one of the younger adults really well, a werewolf called Tristan who came to visit Beacon Hills last summer for diplomatic reasons. He was clever and charming, and really managed to piss Derek off when he became relatively good friends with Stiles. Once Derek made his presence known (about five minutes into their first encounter) Tristan had flashed Stiles an understanding smile and proceeded to flirt with Erica instead, which Stiles recalls the blonde happily basking in the extra attention. 

"I wonder if Tristan is okay," Stiles muses quietly, a prick of worry stabbing his chest at the thought of his friend. "Have you heard from any of them?"

His dad levels a pair of inquisitive green eyes at him. "No, I haven't. But if you're worried something is going on in the Western Territories we should know about, I'll ask Talia to try reaching some of her contacts there."

Talia's good at that, Stiles thinks distantly. She has contacts all over the place, in every Territory, with werewolves, non-humans and humans. High profile court officials, soldiers, and villagers. Talia is very good at what she does, and Stiles knows his parents are lucky to have the Hales on their side. The Hale reputation precedes them, and having Derek as Chief Commander of their Specialized Forces and Talia Hale as the Supreme Adviser to the Royal family only elevates their status, as well as the well-known strength of Beacon Hills. 

"That's good," Stiles nods, squeezes his dad's shoulder, tries to tell himself to not overthink. But he can't shake the nagging sense of something, _somewhere,_ is wrong. When concern dots the weary lines of his dad's face, Stiles shakes it off and smiles wide at him, because his dad doesn't need more problems. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but anything worthwhile we find out will come straight to you."

"You want me to be here when Lydia and Allison arrives?" John asks, already rising to his feet with a large book clutched in his hands. With the light streaming through the windows, it catches the ornamental gold bracelet hanging around John's right wrist, carved with the insignia and royal seal of _King_ matching with the pin on his lapel. "I don't mind leaving you kids to your own devices." 

"No," Stiles says, suppressing a laugh because Lydia and Allison are hardly _kids._ They're all coming up mid twenties. "You can stay, Dad. But you know how Lydia and Allison are."

John winces, like he's remembering the last time Lydia relentlessly chased after him for new lab equipment and special gear. "Ah yes. You know what, I'll see you later then, son. If there's anything you need come find me in the Glass Room," and his dad opting to leave the room instead of being wrangled by Lydia again is just a testament to the redhead's passionate ferocity, and it would be hilarious if Stiles wasn't just as terrified. "Your mother's in there?"

But Stiles is already taking a seat at the beautiful teak wood table, fanning out the books he's chosen, and taking a wad of papers from his folder. His father smiles at the sight, touching his son's head affectionately with a hand and ruffles his hair, ignoring Stiles' indignant fidgeting because a grown man should _not_ be getting his hair ruffled.

"I'm a grown up _and_ a Prince, Dad," Stiles whines, but secretly basks in the comforting touch.

John laughs, pats him on the shoulder before leaving. "But you're still my son."

* * *

It's at least a full twenty minutes before Lydia and Allison come sneaking into the library, no doubt hoping to scare him, but Stiles has lived with a burly, grumpy Alpha werewolf for the better half of his life and his instincts have totally gotten the memo. The second Lydia steps into the library and tries to muffle the telltale sound of her high heels, Stiles is already turning around, just in time to catch Allison hovering directly above him with her fingers out and a guilty expression on her face. 

"Your Highness. Hi, Stiles," Allison gulps. "Uh."

Stiles rolls his eyes good-naturedly and waves her over to a seat. "That was a shit scare, All, do I need to talk to Scott about teaching you how to prank people properly? Come on. As Scott's girlfriend and one of _my_ best friends, you're going to need to uphold our infamous reputation."

Lydia comes stalking into view, wearing a vibrant skirt that swirls around her thighs and a black bodysuit, and takes a dainty curtsy, murmuring his rightful title with a smile. She's as stunning as ever, her hair in an effortless up-do that Stiles _knows_ took her an hour to do. If Stiles were four again, he'd be right up there figuring out a way to pester Lydia into dating him, and not for the first time, he thanks the Gods he grew out of his Lydia-obsession phase and slipped into his infatuation slash love slash I'll-die-for-you eternal romance with Derek instead. 

But then again, once Stiles discovered he was Derek's mate, it was game over for both of them. They never looked at anyone else after that. 

Never mind the fact that Stiles had been six years old, and Derek had been eight.

They were _it_ for each other. 

"You're thinking about Derek, aren't you?" Lydia drawls, relaxing into a leather chair opposite from him and shooting Allison a smug smirk. "That's your Derek Face."

"Excuse me," Stiles protests, eyes widening. "Derek Face? I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't have a _Derek Face._ " 

Stiles thinks he just might, kinda, hate Lydia and Allison a little bit when they exchange preppy, knowing, shit-eating smiles. He scowls at them, tries to act nonchalant at the accusation, but it's not even a big issue because all things considered, _of course_ Stiles has a Derek Face. But can you blame him? The hottest Greek God of Werewolves is not only an incredibly attractive man, but also kind, protective, understanding and a thousand other wonderful things that makes up his mate. And to hell with the world if Stiles can't parade Derek around like a show-pony. He's proud of Derek. So yeah, if he has a heart sickening, moony face reserved only for when thinking about the love of his life, so be it. 

"There he goes again," Allison laughs, curling open his hand and plucking the wad of papers from his hold. "Making eyes for Derek already and the guy isn't even here."

"As if you don't do the same thing with my best friend," Stiles retorts teasingly, making a face that tries to properly convey the amount of painful years Stiles had spent sitting in the corner, games console in one hand, staring open mouthed in muted horror as Allison and Scott sucked face right there on the couch in the family Den. "The only thing worse than you having seen Scott's pants off is the fact that _I'm_ the only other person who's seen his pants off."

Allison opens her mouth like she wants to protest, then ducks her head as her cheeks turn pink. Lydia lets out a melodious chuckle and touches her best friend consolingly on her back. 

Stiles turns back to his folder, kicking his feet up on the wooden bar beneath his feet. Derek's right there in his heart, he doesn't even need to be there in person, is what Stiles thinks of saying in response to Allison's quip, but then decides against it because then he's just making it _easy_ for the two girls. 

"Check it out," is what Stiles says instead, jerking his head to the papers Allison is holding. "The officers from the Northern Territories sent me this a day ago so we'd have time to read it over before they arrive."

Allison scans over the pages, and a cute little frown develops on her face. "They're asking us to send military enforcement, Stiles. Just a dozen men or so is what they need. This should be going to Talia, or your parents, if it's military. Not foreign affairs or trade."

"I know," Stiles says, shifting his weight on the chair. "But keep reading. One of their trade routes is blocked. And they want those dozen men to, I don't know," and he waves his hand at the papers. "Help them scope out the situation? Because that route corresponds with the main one on the Red Silk that Beacon Hills controls."

"What, and they need our men to do that? That's unusual of the North," Lydia says, cocking her head and peering over Allison's shoulder to read. After a moment, her face contorts in something anxious and tense, and it's that instant that Stiles knows she's just confirmed his hunch. 

There's something wrong.

"My dad," he begins slowly, wondering how much he can indulge in them. But it's Lydia and Allison. He trusts them with his life. "mentioned something about a werewolf struggle for power in the suburbs of the Western Territories. Some kind of coup d'etat for the office there."

Allison gnaws on her fingernail, nose scrunched. "I've also heard those rumors, among the state officials here. They talk about it like it's some revolution getting rise. But the Trahan Pack, I mean there's no way another pack could overthrow them."

"It's recent, isn't it?" Lydia asks, gaze turning sharp as she reads the document in lightning speed. "Are there any confirmation reports? Scouts? Recon gone wrong?"

"No," and Allison sounds disappointed. "None at all. I'll ask my Dad and his Hunters to keep a lookout for any activity in the Straits, their base is pretty close to the Western Territories but moreso to the South."

Stiles turns to look at them, wants to see if they're just as worried as he is. Beacon Hills and the surrounding nations have been peaceful for more than five years, obtaining a shaky, yet resolute alliance with the Territories surrounding their Kingdom. It makes him uneasy, to know that there are rumors of a werewolf uprising in the Western Territories, and that the North is asking the Kingdom for reinforcements around the border. 

"They say here," Lydia says, jabbing the written paper with one long acrylic nail. "That they would like a dozen men of our Specialized Forces to travel to the the border with the Western Territories, because one of their important trade routes have been blockaded by some kind of..." and she trails off, squints at the paper. "Disturbance. It doesn't say."

"Werewolf disturbance," Stiles fills in with a small snort. "I've already asked my Dad to tell Talia to contact her people in the Western Territories. If something's happened, we need to know about it straight from the source." There's always the danger of some miscommunication, or a fumbling of documents that can inevitably lead to a mess, Stiles thinks darkly. He doesn't entirely trust the word of the North, either. The leading Pack there, the Bernhardts, have never really interacted with Beacon Hills or the Royal family in the way the Trahans have. Stiles himself has never even met any wolves from the pack, but from one of their diplomatic sessions, he remembers his father mentioning having met the Bernhardts a few times.

Allison grimaces. "I don't have a good feeling about this, Stiles."

Stiles chuckles wryly, meets her worried gaze. "Neither do I."

"What are we going to say when the Northern state officers get here?" Lydia questions, pushing the stack of papers away and clasps her hands together on the table, a trademark sign she's restless too. "If they just need our help unblocking a trade route that corresponds directly with the Red Silk, then we need to ask why they need _our_ men to go, and where the hell their own forces are."

"We would have heard something," Allison murmurs, a shadow falling over her face. "If the North was running into trouble with the Western Territories. There's no reason why they can't use their own military, and yeah, it's probably much smaller than ours, but the Bernhardt Pack is not defenseless and it's definitely not small."

"Do any of you know the Bernhardt Pack?" Stiles says. "Because the state officials from the North are sent by them. I mean, personally I think that if they answer our questions and they seem," and he hesitates before saying, "trustworthy, and we're talking whether we'd feel comfortable giving them a prized egg and trusting them not to break it or some shit, or trusting them with four AM type secrets like _'I have sex dreams about my pet snail'._ Then I don't see a reason why we shouldn't send a few men down their way, see what's going on for ourselves."

"No, neither of us have met the Bernhardts," is Allison's reply and Stiles grins at her, the sweet girl. Lydia is busy trying to rip him a new one, so he appreciates Allison a hell of a lot more than the usual amount. 

"Speaking from experience there, Your Highness?" Lydia says, voice silky smooth as she gives him a cutting smile. "I knew you had something going on with that snail you saved a while back, you always acted shifty when Scott asked."

Allison laughs quietly, but Stiles refuses to rise up to the bait. No, he is stronger than that. So it's not completely his fault when he decides to internally plot something incredibly juvenile and petty, like stealing all the towels from Lydia's room during her shower, or replace all her expensive high heels shoes with consumer-grade slipper shoes. 

Revenge is best served cold, as they say, which Lydia will be without her towels.

He's scared of Lydia, though, so he'll probably send Scott inside first to check if there are any devious booby traps. Better safe than sorry, and Stiles never regrets erring on the side of caution. He'd rather not be chased down the hallway by a homicidal redhead holding a deadly pair of stilettos, thank you very much. Stiles thinks his position as the Prince is already undermined enough by his habit of running into people. 

"Right," Stiles suddenly says, raising his head to stare at two of his most trusted associates. "Then let's—"

"Your Royal Highness, please excuse us. There's a messenger for you." comes a respectful voice at the entrance of the library.

Allison and Lydia immediately straighten, eyes flicking past Stiles' shoulder. 

Stiles gets up from his seat, turning, and only at the wave of his hand does the messenger come into view, blocked inbetween the two burly guards. 

From the corner of his eye, Lydia and Allison rise to their feet beside him, a position of solidarity that manages to calm his nerves a little. Somehow he can't help but feel like this isn't good news. Two Royal Guard stands in the corridor, expressions indifferent and spines ramrod straight as they coolly nudge forward what looks like a young teenager, most likely a freshly trained Page who doesn't dare look up at Stiles, and seems to be shivering in his boots in the presence of royalty. Stiles almost frowns in pity, he feels bad for this kid. Someone's obviously struck fear into the heart of this boy. The Page quickly folds out a parchment from his jacket to read out of, and stutters before adopting a calmer tone and reading out, 

"Your Royal Highness, Trade and Foreign Affairs Minister Prince Stiles Stilinski, this letter comes to you from the State Officers sent on behalf of the distinguished Bernhardt Pack as the representative of the Northern Territories. We have arrived on the noble premises of the Beacon Hills Palace, and request a meeting with Your Royal Highness at his earliest convenience. We extend our greatest appreciation for your kind hospitality, and look forward to convening matters of our alliance."

The messenger stuffs the parchment back, eyes still fixed firmly on the floor like he's afraid lasers will beam out of Stiles' eyes or something if he looks up. 

"Thank you," Stiles says, nodding at the two guards. "Please tell them I'll be right along."

Then the library door closes again, and the receding footsteps of the guards leave his chest a little looser and Stiles breathes out, glancing back at his friends expectantly.

"They're here," is all he says. A rush of adrenaline courses through his chest, and Stiles grins to himself. His job never gets old. 

Lydia has on her battle face, the one she wears before she walks into a courtroom, prepared to decimate whoever is on the other side until she gets what she wants. Allison is wearing a gentler, but no less determined expression, and Stiles smiles at them both, feeling insanely _lucky_ that he has these two on his side. 

These Northern wolves won't know what hit them.


	2. Chapter 2

The second the Northern wolves stop talking, Stiles lays one hand on the table and meets their sullen, yet prideful gazes. 

"You say you need a third neutral party to investigate the blockage, right?" Stiles says, carefully keeping his voice calm and controlled. He's not a wolf, not like these two officials, but he knows from experience that werewolves are incredibly intuitive and Stiles won't risk giving something away accidentally. "Then it's safe to assume that animosity exists between the Western and Northern Territories, enough for your leaders to send you here to Beacon Hills for our assistance."

One of the wolves, an older man called Jonathan, visibly bristles. "There is no outward animosity, per se," the official replies stiffly. "But calling in a third party to investigate sits well with the situation. If the Bernhardt Pack sends in their wolves to inspect the blockage, and we find probable cause that points to the Trahan Pack, our wolves will have no choice but to respond in kind."

_With violence._

Stiles struggles not to snap, _maybe you should try and keep your wolves in control like responsible adults._ Because of his job, he's come face to face with so many werewolves who prefer using their claws than their words to sort out a situation, and while he may not understand it, Derek's told him it probably originates from their animalistic instincts. In some Packs, the wolf is controlled and kept under the surface, secondary to the human aspect, or on equal grounds. In other Packs, having the wolf be the primary identity is even encouraged, and taught to young werewolves. Honestly, the whole complicated thing makes him a tad bit relieved he's only human, and the only identity crisis he's had was back when he was a preteen and couldn't decide between the PlayStation or the XBOX. 

"You're sure the Trahan Pack caused the trade blockage?" Allison asks. "It seems unlikely they'd be looking for trouble."

The second official, a burly young man named Jacob, levels a flinty look at Allison that she gladly returns. Stiles suppresses a grin, because if these two wolves think they can intimidate any member of his team, especially the spunky young Hunter, they're sadly mistaken. "All we know is that the Trahans have remained silent on the matter of the blockage. We have shipments going through to the Red Silk, some are expected to arrive in Beacon Hills as well," and Jacob adopts a smug light in his eye at that, "and instead of receiving packages and payments in kind we're getting complaints things are not going where they should be."

"If it's a communication problem with the Trahans," Lydia buts in smoothly, green eyes fixing the two wolves with a terrifying amount of intensity. From personal experience, Stiles knows Lydia has stared down werewolves into submission at least a hundred times before. "Then shouldn't the Bernhardts get that straightened out first before coming to Beacon Hills and requesting military assistance?" 

The two Northern wolves share a frustrated glance, and if Stiles was a werewolf, he'd probably be smelling the sour scent of displeasure from the two men. 

Stiles watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, because something's not quite right here. He suspects the North aren't telling the whole truth, withholding something, and if there's one thing he can trust it's his gut instinct. Jonathan lets out a small, heavy breath and turns to them with a resigned expression on his face.

"At the moment, the Bernhardts are..." and Jonathan pauses, looking like he's trying to find the right words. "not operating at optimal capacity. Some issues have come to light that we are preoccupied with. We need our forces with us, at the Pack territory."

Ah. Stiles straightens in his seat, wondering exactly what Jonathan means. "Not at their best? Is Valeria Bernhardt unwell?" Valeria Bernhardt is the Pack leader, much like Talia Hale is the Alpha of her own pack. Valeria, according to his father during one of their lessons about the other wolf packs and Territory leaders in the area, had been unwell for quite some time. She's an older wolf, older than Talia. The restlessness gleaming in Jacob's eye tells Stiles all he needs to know. 

These wolves are obviously trying to protect their Pack. 

"Valeria Bernhardt is healthy and strong," Jonathan says, expression guarded. "But her attention is currently needed elsewhere."

Of course they're going to play it off as their Alpha having no weaknesses. Stiles can understand that mentality; the Northern Territories have an alliance with Beacon Hills and their kingdom, surely, but knowing the key dynamics of another pack is nearly unheard of to strangers. Presenting a strong, united front is the werewolf's favorite game, even if their pack leader is frail and on the brink of death. Even if Valeria Bernhardt was taking her last breath, Stiles knows enough about werewolves to assume that her pack would never betray that information until the Bernhardts appointed a worthy successor. 

"But there is some unrest in the pack," Jacob takes over, "and the Bernhardt family prefers their forces closest to them at this time. But we need the trade route situation resolved, for reasons you know, and the Bernhardt Pack extends their greatest thanks if Your Royal Highness agrees to send some men to investigate the trail."

Unrest in the pack. By the twitch in Jonathan's eye, the hint was unintended. 

Valeria Bernhardt is an older Alpha than most wolves are familiar with, and Stiles knows that while rare, it is possible for younger wolves in the Pack to become uneasy with the vulnerability of the leader and try to assert a takeover, establishing a new, younger Alpha in command. In that case, either the current Alpha retires, or is challenged to a duel. If that's what's happening in the Northern Territories, the change in command is certainly worrying, especially if it's not a descendant of Valeria herself, which is the norm in these larger, older packs.

He sneaks a searching glance at Lydia, and she catches his gaze in time, and nods. Lydia's thinking the same thing.

The Bernhardts can't send their own men because sides are forming, divide is rising within the pack, and they can't afford allowing the loyal soldiers they do have afoot gallivanting around the roadside to dislodge some sort of trade blockage when they might be needed to defend the Bernhardt bloodline. 

Stiles is really good at putting things together. 

Allison, however, is not done with the Northern wolves. "You will need to send us at least a few of your men. While our own wolves and men are familiar with the Red Silk trail route, going into the Northern Territories won't be a piece of cake. Having some Bernhardt wolves with us will make the trip easier, and they'll be a welcome guide." She raises her chin, brown eyes steadfast, and Stiles approves. This way, they won't be walking into a trap, and the Bernhardt wolves will act as a deterrent to any trouble.

Having guides who live in foreign territory won't hurt, either. 

The added manpower makes Stiles feel better about the whole thing, anyway. 

"Are you expecting trouble at the blockage?" Stiles says, taking the piece of paper Jonathan slides over to him and after reading the document quickly, waits for an answer before touching the pen to the paper "I won't have my men sent into a fight," and his tone turns a little flatter, _Prince_ bleeding into his voice, because Stiles won't send loyal men into harm. He wants to make sure they're safe. Or as safe as they can be, even if he knows all the Specialized Forces in his Kingdom can handle himself _way_ better than Stiles himself can. 

But he thinks of Derek, thinks of his mate heading into danger, and his heart nearly seizes up in fear and he has to force himself to breathe again. 

Derek is his other fucking half, and so he tries to put it into perspective, that the men and (few) women he sends to go on missions have mates, have wives and husbands and children to care for, people who feel exactly the same way Stiles feels when Derek tells him he's being sent on another expedition or he needs to go somewhere that is not Beacon Hills. That they feel the _fear_ as raw and potent as he does, their heart crawling up through their throats. That they go through the same restless, scared nights where all he does is wait for Derek to come back to him. That they see their loved ones walking away to do their duties and hates themselves a little for wishing that they didn't have to. That they also know the feeling of the stomach dropping _relief_ that overcomes his senses like a tidal wave when Derek's in his arms again, whole, steady, _safe._

Stiles prioritizes his mate's life over anybody else's, even his own, and that's perfectly understandable.

But unless his hands are tied with steel chains and a gag's in his mouth, no way in hell he's letting his people, no matter who they are, walk in blind into an ambush miles away from their home. 

Jonathan's eyes flicker briefly in a way that makes Stiles feel slightly unsettled, but he sounds calm when he says, "It's a trade route, Your Royal Highness. I doubt a blockage to the trail would consequent to violence. We have had men scouting the area, and have all returned home safely."

Lydia makes a small, doubtful noise from his left side. Stiles holds up a hand, as Jacob looks increasingly agitated, shifting in his seat uneasily, looking ready to argue for their case yet again. 

"Expect a Beacon Hills team in the next few days. Have your Bernhardt wolves meet us at the trail before they enter the Northern Territories." is what Stiles says, standing up once he signs his name at the bottom of the page and hands it to Jonathan. The Northern wolves immediately rise to their feet, each giving him a respectful bow, murmuring 'Your Royal Highness' and the wash of gratitude on their faces is unmistakable. Stiles shakes their hands formally, smiles, and nods as they thank him. Once this meeting is over, he'll have to find his Dad and fill him in on the Bernhardt situation, and then he'll go to Derek because he just needs to see his mate, breathe in his scent, relax his nerves for a while. Of course, there's also a professional reason for that too but Derek's cuddles come first. 

"Your Royal Highness?" Jonathan stops him in his tracks out the door. Lydia and Allison glance back, intending to wait, but Stiles waves them to go on without him and turns back to the older wolf. 

"Yes?" and Stiles offers the Northern official a small, but no less welcoming smile. 

Jonathan seems taken back by the friendly gesture, and his shoulders lose some tension. "Thank you," he says sincerely, reaching forward to clasp Stiles' hand briefly, touch strangely gentle. Stiles opens his mouth a little bit, about to respond, but sees the sheer relief in his eyes, and kindly squeezes his hand back. They're standing quite close to each other, Jonathan only a foot away, and it's enough for Stiles to notice the dark bags under his weathered blue eyes, the worried lines scored in his forehead. The older wolf exudes a haggard, weary air, and Stiles is starkly reminded of recognizing the same expression on the faces of his parents, Talia and the older officials. 

Stiles stops to think about what exactly is happening in the Northern Territories to make a State Official look like that, but he doesn't show his worry. It's not his place to ask, and Jonathan wouldn't tell him anyways. "Stay for a few hours," he says, even as Jonathan's eyes widen in mild surprise. "You just traveled here, you and Jacob must be feeling exhausted. We have a lot to offer," and Stiles gestures at the bland meeting room with a wry smile. "I promise, Beacon Hills is a lot nicer than this one dab grey room. We have freshly baked cookies made by a Hale that in another life, would have been a fantastic baker. We have wonderful cooks in the kitchen that will literally send you running for your life, because they keep telling you to _eat, darling, just one more bite_ after you've been force fed about four plates of food."

Jonathan lets out a genuine laugh, eyes softening like he hasn't laughed in a while. Stiles aches for him, inside, and grins wide at the other man. "So the rumors are true," the older wolf murmurs, "the Hales are certainly talented on all facets of life."

"I will neither confirm nor deny," Stiles says jokingly and gives him an easy wink. "but I'll tell you that if you ever meet my mate, tell him _that_ and you're going to see at least five different expressions of pride on his face. With his _eyebrows._ "

"Your mate is a lucky man," and if Stiles hears that one more time today he's going to crow about it to Derek like a victor lording over his spoils. _Yes._ Stiles is a great mate, and other people actually notice it. Forgetting that Jonathan's still there, Stiles pops his head right back up in time to catch him saying, "I might take you up on your kind offer, Your Royal Highness," Jonathan confesses quietly. "Jacob and I would be humbled to take some rest here before setting off again."

Stiles gets the feeling that for Jonathan, it's almost like he's looked down upon to by agreeing to take a few hours of rest and fill up on food after an arduous journey. For the second time that afternoon, Stiles wonders what the Bernhardts are doing to their wolves, and tries not to frown in the other man's face, reminding himself it's not his place to judge the customs of another Pack.

"Then let me be a gracious host," Stiles smiles again and motions the older man towards the door, waving a Guard in take care of the two guests. "It was a pleasure to meet you and Jacob, Jonathan, if there's anything you need please don't hesitate to let me know. Have a safe trip home," and then because Stiles can be a scatterbrain he quickly adds, "give me and my family's regards to Valeria and the Bernhardt Pack."

"You have me and my Pack's gratitude," Jonathan says, eyebrows crinkled like he's stifling a laugh. "And Your Royal Highness? I think you're going to make a fine King one day. Please give the King and Queen our best wishes." The older wolf bows one more time, smiles at Stiles with something unreadable in his blue eyes, and slips out the door to join Jacob out in the hallway. 

Stiles doesn't even have to know the man very well to know that _that_ is a high praise if he's ever gotten one. 

* * *

Even though John looks worried, almost comically so if the situation was funny in any way, Stiles walks away feeling exponentially less anxious than when he had found his Dad in the study, working on files. It's almost stupid how after telling his Dad about the meeting with the Northern State officials and how they have to keep a careful eye on both the Bernhardts and the Trahans, Stiles feels _so_ much better. It's like a child tattling on a problem to his parent, and then something in the kid's brain breaks and is like, _oh, well this ain't our problem anymore. Fuck that._ Except Stiles can't really _forget_ the whole thing, because you know, that little snag where he's a Prince and also in charge of a whole lot of crap in his Kingdom. It's his problem too.

But it's less of _his_ problem than it is his Dad's, and no one can stop Stiles from being just a tad smug about that. 

He can worry about the Trahan Pack being uncharacteristically silent and the isolationist Bernhardt Pack being extra shifty than usual later. Stiles picks his way through the palace until he enters the court yard in the Military Reserve of the estate. The rush of cool air in his hair is nearly orgasmic, and Stiles stills for a moment in the open hall, spreading his arms a little wider to welcome the soft breeze. 

"I thought I smelled something good," Derek's voice rumbles behind him, and even after years of Derek non stop, brutally sneaking up behind him and scaring the _shit_ out of Stiles, it still happens. All the time. It's times like these Stiles wishes he could grow out fangs and claws and fur and just, for one goddamn time, and scare Derek back. 

Stiles places a trembling hand on his chest, feigning a heart attack while trying to calm his heartbeat, and turns very slowly around to glare at his mate. His mate, whose eyebrows are furrowed in what translates into a fullblown smile and laugh. The sight still makes his stupid heart skip a beat, even after all this time, and the warm look in Derek's eye tells Stiles he can feel that, too. 

"Was that really necessary?" Stiles complains, bringing up his other hand to run through his tousled hair. "If I wanted a heart attack, ass munch, I would have, I don't know, jumped off the balcony or something. I don't need this level of stress. Look, I'm growing gray hairs," and he rummages around on the top of his head and picks out a grayish strand of brown hair and widens his eyes accusingly at Derek. "See?"

"Ass munch?" Derek raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. 

Stiles scowls, refusing to be intimidated. "Yeah. I mean, I could call you sweetpie or snugglepumpkin but let's face it, ass munch suits you better."

Derek smiles, and in about three and a half long steps (that's the other thing Stiles considers as 'Werewolf Perks') Derek's standing nose-to-nose with him. Stiles gazes up at his mate, admiring the thick, luscious black lashes framing those beautiful hazel, green-flecked eyes. 

"I don't see any gray hairs," Derek murmurs, pitching forward and gently carding through his hair. Well glaring at Derek is useless _now,_ Stiles sighs in exasperation, closing his eyes and enjoys the mini massage. 

"That's because you're probably so used to seeing them your eyes are colorblind to it," Stiles says, making a face. But he smiles anyway, outright _beams,_ all the concerns of the day flitting to settle in the recesses of his mind. Like having Derek loom menacingly over him is a gift. Derek looks right back him, eyes fond but he's probably thinking, _Stiles Stilinski. This guy makes no fucking sense._ "I missed you, sourwolf," and Stiles grabs him and kisses him hard, wringing his hands into Derek's hair, heavy until they're both breathing stilted, faces flushed as they pull back from each other. 

"I like it when you miss me," Derek announces, lips lifting in a smile. 

"You're a goddamned treasure," Stiles tells him. "Let's go somewhere secluded."

"Scott's watching."

Stiles closes his eyes in disappointment, opens his eyes because Derek is huffing out an amused breath in his face, and lets out long sigh then yells, "Scott, you pervert up-to-no-good stalker! Show your face or I'm sending a wolf to hunt your ass down."

"I don't think you're supposed to have sexual relations on the job, Derek," Scott remarks earnestly as he slinks out from behind a pillar, green army shirt sticking to his chest, hair damp with sweat and expression designed to draw out pity from anyone who takes one look at his puppy face. "Hi, Stiles," and he grins, wide and easy, and Stiles rolls his eyes but envelopes his best friend in a manly backslapping hug anyways. 

"You know you just cockblocked the Prince?" Stiles whispers in Scott's ear, wincing as some of the sweat rubs off on him.

He can feel Scott smile's smile against his neck. "Why do you think I followed Derek."

"You're evil," Stiles tells him, pulling back and wiping his hands on Scott's (even sweatier) shirt. "You are evil incarnate. I'm telling your Mom, and once she hears of this stone cold betrayal and then she won't even _know_ her own son anymore."

"Real mature," Scott says, like _he_ has the moral high ground. "Like one of your favorite hobbies isn't making sure everyone knows just how 'lovey-dovey' and 'tooth-rottingly in love' Allison and I are," then he looks at Derek before Stiles can even get a word in edgewise that he wouldn't have _had_ to complain to anyone in ear or eyesight about Scott and Allison if they hadn't been doing it everywhere he went, _all the fucking time._

If he didn't have Derek, Stiles thinks the history books his father commissioned a few years ago would be writing about how Stiles lost his mind before he even became King and had to be euthanized to escape the pain of witnessing Scott and Allison's all-consuming, Romeo and Juliet style romantic saga instead of living out his best years. And then in the section where they would write about his accomplishments, the most impressive one would definitely be 'not offing himself sooner even after that time Scott spent five days moping about how he couldn't find the right fucking batch of peony flowers for Allison'. 

_Five days._

Stiles still has a dent in his skull from how times he banged his head against a hard surface in frustration.

Scott still has an occasional faulty ankle from when Stiles lost his cool in a rage-induced episode and kicked his best friend.

"Derek," Scott says, jamming his hands in his combat pants. "Romain, Isaac and Erica are done with the regiment. They're knocked out. Boyd is the only one still standing. Jackson is alternating between breathing and trying not to vomit. Danny is being a good boyfriend and doing it with him."

"It must not be a hard enough of a routine," Derek replies, coming to stand beside Stiles and leveling one of his infamous indifferent stares on Scott. "Because you don't seem tired at all."

Scott laughs and jerks his thumb over to the direction of some bushes. "Oh don't worry about it, this is me composing myself after ten minutes of screaming into the air, and only after I threw up somewhere in the back of the bushes."

Stiles grimaces, because physical labor, _sounds like hell,_ and leans into Derek, infinitely grateful he isn't in the Specialized Combat Unit like most of his friends are. "What kind of hardcore regime does he have you guys on now?"

"A nice little mix of _torture,_ some more torture, and oh, did I forget to mention? Torture." Scott deadpans, giving Derek a cheeky smirk before pelting his ass back towards the grassy yard towards the left of the court yard, yelling something unintelligible in the wind.

Derek gives a little rumble. "Your best friend is a piece of work."

"You mean he's fun to mess with," Stiles grins, stepping on his tip toes to kiss his mate's stubbly cheek. "Just because you're the Commander doesn't mean you can make their lives miserable, Der."

"It was in the job description, Stiles. Also one of my special talents." 

"My sourwolf. Fuck, am I glad that I'm not one of your soldiers."

Derek scrunches up his nose like even insinuating the possibility is preposterous. "Stiles, you can't even do ten pushups without making the sounds one would expect from a murder victim, and don't think I don't see the way your limbs tremble."

Stiles is offended. He is. He's outraged. There are no words to express his emotions when he snaps his head around to stare at his mate, because calling out Stiles' physical endurance in _broad daylight?_ How dare he. "When are you going to stop holding the fitness fiasco of _two summers ago_ against me? And my arms do not tremble, excuse you. They vibrate with masculine, powerful energy, energy that could put your ass in the sand any day," and he's stabbing a finger right in the middle of Derek's hard chest, "and everyone knows my body is built for running _away_ from things. Which is smart. I see something that's dangerous, my body is already geared to haul ass from it and my chances of survival are already higher. You bulky _oh-I-can-do-twenty-pushups-without-dying_ soldiers can go kiss my ass when you get your lights punched out because you're more used to staying and fight than running for your life!"

His mate takes one long look at him, shakes his head slowly, like he loves Stiles anyway but doesn't really understand _why._ "You done?"

"Yeah," Stiles says and breathes out. "Yeah. Call the burn ward, because you should probably admit yourself."

"I don't know if they treat victims who suffer from rants," is all Derek says to that before he pulls Stiles to him and kisses him on the side of his head, and starts walking towards the direction Scott ran off in, hand resting comfortably on the small of his back. And goddamn, that's unfair, right? Because Stiles can't fight against that. What is he supposed to _do_ after Derek kisses him. 

They turn the court yard, and right there, in the open grassy field, tumbles around five werewolves, one kanima, and one werecoyote. 

It looks like a puppy pile.

Stiles sneaks a peek at Derek's face, and it's just fond exasperation. Adorable.

"Listen up!" Derek says loudly, and just like that, all of them are on their feet, upright in soldier stances with their backs straight as a pole and eyes fixed ahead, still bright and faces pink. "When I came back, I expected most of you to be groaning and moaning, wriggling on the floor like worms. Did I make the routine today too easy?"

Stiles follows his mate as they stalk towards the group, gleeful in his steps as he makes eye contact with his friends. 

"No sir!" Isaac says, shaking his head, the brown curls on his head bouncing. Then he catches sight of Stiles, and grins in delight. "Your Royal Highness." Isaac is one of the softer wolves under Derek's command, gentle and sympathetic where Derek and the rest are hard and unforgiving. Isaac is absolutely one of Stiles' favorites, not that he uh, has any, you know, but yeah. The curly-haired wolf is a sweetheart, and Stiles absolutely does not give a single fuck when he launches himself forward and hugs the other boy. 

Derek just sighs, because he knows Stiles is constantly starved for physical contact. And as long as it's Pack that he's touching and he smells of, (even though at all times Stiles needs to smell like Derek the most) it's okay. It's relaxing, even, that Stiles smells so thoroughly of warmth and _Pack._

Isaac beams, as Stiles steps back. "Thanks for being here. Derek would have been making us run another lap."

"I still might do that," Derek comments casually behind, before waving Boyd and Scott over to him and the three of them move a little farther away from the Pack, heads bent low together as Derek starts talking in a lower voice. 

Erica takes the opportunity to barrel towards him, and Stiles ends up on the grassy floor with am armful of happy, playful blonde werewolf. She helps him to a sitting position with a confident grin on her face, and Stiles can't help but smiling right back. Erica leans in against his side, snuffling his hair and neck, a contented rumble vibrating through her body. Stiles lets her, because they're just as close as he and Isaac are, and pretty soon the curly-haired wolf is settling down beside them, with Jackson, Danny and Romain crowding around with identical satisfied expressions on their faces. Danny slouches over Stiles affectionately, giving him a hug. 

He hugs Danny back, light and careful, and says, "Mister Mahealani, your boyfriend is right there, and mine is back there, this is completely inappropriate."

"Shut up, loser," Jackson snorts, scales quickly sinking back into his skin as he kneels down and presses himself shoulder to hip against Stiles, who nudges him back. 

Romain laughs and on his way down to the inadvertent puppy pile, ruffles Stiles' hair affectionately. "Your Royal Highness."

"Now why can't you all be respectful like Romy over there?" Stiles asks, ducking smoothly in time as Erica's flying hand barrels towards the space his head just occupied, not missing a beat as he says, "He's gonna make some pretty wolf girl incredibly happy one day." Isaac murmurs a sound of agreement, flopping onto the ground and using Stiles' lap as a pillow. 

A blush spreads over Romain's cheeks, and the blond-haired wolf quickly turns his head away, but not before Stiles catches an impish smile curving his lips.

The Pack, as a single collective unit twists around to stare incredulously at him. 

"That, that face!" Stiles says, shaking Erica's hand wildly as he grins in excitement. "Do you already _have_ a pretty wolf girl in mind? Romy! Why are we just finding out about this?"

"Is _that_ why couldn't join me for game night for the past month?" Isaac questions, a smile fast spreading on his face. "Romy. Oh my God. Who is she?"

Erica lets out a short, affectionate bark, grabbing at Romain's hands and pulling him closer to the Pack, even as the younger blond yelps in surprise and faint protest, but follows her anyway. No one can ever resist Erica. "Tell us! I can't believe we didn't know."

If Stiles had thought that Romain couldn't get any redder, he had been wrong, because the poor guy looks halfway in the process of transitioning into a tomato. The blond-haired wolf shakes his head, grinning, the happiness practically radiating from his face. Romain joined the Pack a couple years earlier, after a hunting accident had left him orphaned, and he was taken in by Isaac's family once they heard about it. Stiles remembers a tiny, chubby-cheeked, rosy eyed Romain following his elder brother Isaac everywhere he went, and wouldn't let Isaac join the military unless he could, too. Stiles knows Isaac and Romain love each other like brothers, reminds Stiles of him and Scott. All the shit Romain's been through, Stiles is fucking _elated_ that he's finally found someone who makes him happy.

If anyone deserves love, it's Romain. 

And by the proud look on Isaac's face, he thinks so too. 

"She's not a wolf," Romain says slowly, picking and choosing his words carefully, but never once does he stop smiling. "She's human. She's, perfect. Sweet and kind, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and she's about a thousand times smarter than me," and he glances up at Stiles then, dimples showing on his cheeks. "smarter than anyone I've known. Maybe even you, Stiles."

"Ooh," comes the teasing chorus from the Pack gathered around them. 

Stiles narrows his eyes playfully, "Romy, should I feel threatened? Is this girl going to make me look dumb? And possibly steal everyone away from me with how smart and perfect she is?" and touches Romain's outstretched hand. "She sounds wonderful, Romy, I'm so happy for you."

"Making you look dumb isn't hard," Erica whispers loudly in his ear. 

Stiles responds by pushing her face away from his shoulder, ignoring her outraged squawk. 

"When do we get to meet her?" Danny asks, brown eyes round. "I hope she likes us."

"What's not to like," Jackson grunts, rolling his boyfriend around so Danny is inbetween the v shape of his legs. "We're a great group of people. We're super nice."

Erica rolls her eyes. "We're intimidating as fuck, and you know it."

"Yeah," Isaac says mournfully from his place in Stiles' lap, and Stiles grins down at the curly-haired wolf, pushing his hands through his friend's soft hair. "Literally every wolf in the Forces are too scared to talk to us. I know it's because we're supposedly the Elite Combat Unit, and Derek's our Alpha, and we're best friends with the Prince, but _still,_ I can't even walk through a crowded canteen without other soldiers _making way_ for me." Stiles makes a sympathetic sound, finding a tense knot on the curly-haired wolf's shoulder and pressing down, kneading the muscles expertly. He knows it's against Isaac's nature to command fear and respect from his fellow soldiers and wolves, because the guy is one of the friendliest, sweetest wolves he knows. But even with Isaac in the mix, Stiles thinks a stranger might not take well being integrated into their tight knit group, just due to sheer reputation and observation.

They've known each other for years, some, in the cases like Stiles and Derek, Stiles and Scott, and some of the Pack, they've even grown up together. 

To an outsider, becoming apart of the Derek's Pack seems like an impossible feat. 

He frowns. "We'll try to make her feel as welcome as possible even so," he reassures Romain, who doesn't look affected by the Pack's comments. "if and when you're ready for us to meet her."

The Pack murmurs softly in agreement. 

Romain eyes them all gratefully, and his fond gaze lingers on Stiles longer than the rest. Stiles grins back. "Thanks guys, it means a lot that you're okay with this. You'll really love her," and there's something mischievous and delighted in his tone which makes Stiles surprised and even curiouser because it doesn't seem like he's nervous for the Pack to meet her, like there's some sort of private joke he's having with the universe none of them are privy to. 

"Can't wait, little brother," Isaac leaps to his feet and curls an adoring arm around the younger wolf, pressing a quick kiss to the other boy's head. 

Stiles looks up, and Derek, Boyd and Scott are heading towards them, and Boyd looks as unmovable as ever but there's something worried and dark falling over Scott's face, because Scott has never been able to really hide how he's feeling. 

Stiles feels a prick of worry stab his chest. "Something wrong?" he asks, getting to his feet and meeting Derek, who winds his arms around Stiles' waist and presses a kiss to his forehead. There's nervous energy winding through Derek's body, Stiles can feel it, and through their mate bond there's a sense of distant unease that comes from the Alpha wolf. Stiles pushes as much comfort and stability through the bond as he can, spreads his fingers on Derek's shoulder and chest, _love_ in his touch, and Derek looks down at him, probably feeling the steady hum of their bond and smiles, gratitude relaxing the lines of his face. 

"Nothing you need to worry about right now," Derek says, and rubs Stiles' back before stepping away to face the rest of his Pack, who are all on their feet again. "Everyone," Derek begins, face slipping into professionalism. "I'm going to brief you a situation developing between the Northern and Western Territories. A Northern trade route that leads to our Red Silk trail has been compromised, and the Bernhardt Pack has requested we send some men their way to scope out the situation."

Scott speaks up from his place beside Derek. "I'm going to be picking six Combat members from Level One to investigate. The new scout agents that we met this morning, I'm going to choose two out of their five and give them a chance to prove themselves," and then adds, "I want your opinion on which two, since you've spent most time with them."

Isaac and Romain exchanges a glance, then Isaac raises his hand. "The girl, Ana, is quite skilled. I liked her fighting style, and she's a good shot. James, the one with the buzzcut has good knife skills, he'll complement her, he's calm when she's aggressive."

Erica wrinkles her nose. "Aw, you're sending Ana away? Just when I thought I'd get another girl around in a house full of boys."

"You love us," Jackson says, smirking. "and you didn't even like her that much."

"I might have liked her in time!" Erica protests, knocking Jackson on the shoulder. "She had potential. The lack of a dick in her pants was part of it."

Danny laughs, "Don't go confusing what you like in a romantic partner with what you want in a teammate, Erica," and he's still laughing when he easily dodges a swipe of Erica's high kick. But she's rolling her eyes in good humor, and Scott cracks a grin at the quip, and leans over to fist bump Danny.

Isaac pats Erica on the shoulder. "It's okay. I support you."

"Thanks honey," Erica says, beaming and wrapping the other wolf in a tight hug. "This is a good friend, guys, take some fucking notes."

Derek lifts his chin, takes a whiff in the air. "Alright, alright. Now you all stink, so go take a shower, get a snack, and then head to the Ops center so we can plan the excursion, pick the wolves who are going and strategize our approach. Scott, you're in charge." 

Stiles raises his eyebrows in mild surprise as Scott nods, eyes ringed with gold at being entrusted with a job Derek himself would normally do. It's good that Derek is giving his the younger wolf more responsibility in the Pack and Unit wise, training Scott to be his second-in-command as best as he can. Boyd has always been Derek's Beta in the way that he provides the Alpha with a calm head, stability in the Pack and complete subservience to the Alpha's commands, but Scott's status as Beta is the second-in-command like it's his job to oppose Derek if he sees fit, and learn the strategy and mechanics that come with Derek's job as a whole. It's everything Scott's ever wanted to be, and Stiles loves Derek a little more that he recognizes the same drive and passion in Scott too. 

"I'll join you all later," Derek finishes and dips his head, giving the Pack permission to leave.

Isaac moves first, gently shouldering Derek as a gesture of friendly respect and affection for his Alpha, and on his way past Stiles, gives him a sweet smile and nudges against him with considerably less force than with Derek.

"Bye, Mom and Dad," Erica smirks, and gets a lazy swat from Stiles for her troubles. 

Stiles is used to this, everytime he visits the Pack this is the way they say goodbyes so he just stands there, a contented look on his face as the rest of the Pack mills around him and Derek, snuffling with low huffs of their breath and making noises of endearment until Derek gets bored and shoos the last wolf away, which happens to be Romain, and Jackson trips Isaac somewhere three feet away. 

And Romain, being the loyal protective wolf he is, leaps onto Jackson with a mighty howl, somehow managing to bowl Boyd over in the same moment and thus ensuing a game of chase on the grassy field on the Pack's way back to the other side of the courtyard that makes up the Military buildings. 

Scott lingers behind, an amused expression on his face and tsks, "They act like such puppies."

"Yeah right," Stiles snorts and wacks his best friend playfully. "I saw you do the exact same thing yesterday, and got up with dirt in your hair and leaves stuck on your face. Step off your high horse before it bucks you off, McCall," and Scott shoots him a mock offended look, and rolls his eyes. 

"I seem to remember _someone_ else right there beside me."

"Really," Stiles pretends to think, then shakes his head innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Are we still on for the movie night in the Den tonight?" Scott asks, glancing at Derek expectantly. "You can't weasel your way out of this one, because it's _my_ turn to choose the movie and we're watching something so derpy, teenage infatuated in love, and romantic it'll probably make Derek's blood curdle. Which is the whole reason why I wanna watch it."

"Of course we're on! It's a tradition," Stiles says, casually sealing Derek's grim fate for the impending evening. Then he turns to his mate and remarks, "Man I feel bad you're his Alpha," and grins at Derek's fiercely affronted eyebrows. "Let me know if you wanna dispose of him."

"I just might take you up on that," Derek mutters, and stares grumpily at Scott, "Why would I need to watch a movie on teenage infatuated love when I have the live special edition right in front of me?" and Stiles can't help but laugh, because maybe Derek's been listening to him complain about Scott and Allison too long he's picked up some great lines. 

"I'm sorry, I'm not taking suggestions for movie night," Scott tells Derek seriously, bending over in an exaggerated bow. "See you, Alpha," and gives Stiles a quick bro-hug and whispers 'Your Royal Highness' in his ear obnoxiously and runs off before Derek loses his patience and turns Scott into a pile of bloody wolf jerky sticks. 

"I blame you for Scott," Derek declares with a small sigh, watching his Second disappear around the turn and starts pulling Stiles away to head to their room.

"What?" Stiles protests, "He's not my fault. If anything, he's _your_ Beta."

"Boyd is an example of _my_ Beta," Derek retorts easily, "Scott is an example of _your_ friend." 

"Uhuh," is all he says to that, poking Derek in the ribs affectionately. "you love him. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been giving Scott more Alpha-y duties lately, letting him exercise more of his power and leadership skills over the Pack and other Units," and adds quickly when he feels Derek's gaze on his neck, "it's a great idea. You deserve to have a kickass Second, and leaving Scott with more experience will give you that."

Derek stares straight ahead as they start trudging up the stairs leading to their private floor, nodding respectfully at the Guards they pass. "He's a good Second," Derek admits. "and I feel better having someone I trust with me by my side."

It's all true, Scott is a good a Second as any Commander can have. The guy is stupidly talented when he fights, wields his puppy face like a battle axe designed to emotionally weaken the enemy's resolve, and has the blind courage of a stubborn ox. 

Stiles _also_ knows that Derek's praise, rare as it is to come by, include grunts of approval, an eyebrow cocked slightly, and a flat stare. 

"You're lucky Scott's not around to hear you say that," Stiles tells him as they push through another set of large wooden doors, turning right in the hallway leading to their bedroom.

"Because if I say one word of praise about him I'll never hear the end of it for the rest of my life?" Derek says dryly, unlocks the lock to their room with his key and gently nudges open the door with his foot, waiting patiently for Stiles to go through. "I don't plan to."

Stiles takes a flying jump onto their bed, burying his face in the soft covers and kicks his shoes off at the same time. Derek lets out a snort, pressing in from behind and trailing a hand down his back, and Stiles shivers at the touch, twisting around and winking seductively.

"I know a fun way to pass the time," Stiles says, gazing up at his mate under his eyelashes. 

Derek bends down and kisses him, hard and heavy, and Stiles moans into the kiss as Derek roams into his mouth, possessive and harsh. A thrill of excitement races up his spine as Derek pushes him down onto the mattress and cages him in with his own muscled, bulking body, yanking their clothes off and tossing them to the side, and Stiles groans as the wolf peppers long, open-mouthed kisses on his neck, on the slant of his jaw, bucking up desperately into Derek as the heat between their bodies grows unbearable. Derek gets a glint in his hazel eyes and _oh no, I know that look,_ Stiles thinks fuzzily just before Derek slides one hand up into his shirt and mouths hungrily at the sensitive spot on Stiles' bared neck and the other hand goes down low—

—and there's a pale shade of red over his eyes, Stiles can see it, only happens when Derek gets hot and bothered in bed—

and Stiles whimpers into Derek's mouth when his mate's hand grips the warm base of his dick. 

Derek begins to stroke his length, tortuously slow, and rasps into his ear, "This feel good?"

And Stiles grunts, "What do you think?" and surrenders against the waves of pleasure, grits his teeth and wraps his legs around Derek's back and grinds viciously against his mate, leaving a bruising kiss on his mouth, his neck, down his chest, and Derek is letting out low, huffs of warm breaths, pupils blown wide faint with red as he groans into Stiles' neck. 

"Fuck," Stiles says in broken syllables, arching his spine as he feels himself fast approaching release. Derek's hand moves faster and it draws out a _wrecked_ noise from him that has Derek growling again, pushing his face into Stiles and kissing him headily. "Oh s-shit," he gasps out, distantly registering the musky scent of his mate and the sticky texture of Derek's skin, as the bliss builds, making his toes curl, and Derek is adding the pressure, "you're not—you forgot to shower a-after training!" and then he's _coming_ and the rush of boiling heat rockets from head to toe, sets him on fire, and it's intense enough to leave Stiles in a weird semi-delirious state but he shakes his head fiercely, pants heavy breaths, and falls to his knees somewhere on the carpeted floor in front of Derek. 

"I'll just shower after, how is _that_ what you're thinking about?" Derek lets out a choked noise as Stiles, still thrumming, heart hammering from the comedown, angles himself so he can lick one long strip down Derek's chest, kissing softly, biting, then when he gets to Derek's hard dick, looks up with a devious grin. 

"Do you like it when the Prince is on his knees, only for you?" Stiles murmurs, knowing exactly what it will do to his mate. 

Derek stares right back, eyes lidded with pleasure, face flushed dark in the low light of the bedroom as the grip in his hair turns brutal. Stiles runs his hands reverently down Derek's body, noses his inner thigh and the tender skin tantalizingly, eliciting a sweet moan from his mate and very, very slowly, envelopes Derek's cock in the heat of his mouth.

The gasp that wracks through his mate's body is enough to spur him on.

Stiles struggles not to grin around Derek's cock, because that is like the numero uno mistake young lovers make in the sheets according to his handy book, and bobs his head to rhythmical motions, alternating between licking the pulsing head and tightening his lips so the friction increases. And it's good, it must be, because Derek's legs are trembling ever so slightly and he grips the edge of the bed in a haze, one hand curled tightly in Stiles' hair as he opens his mouth in a shattered groan that shoots tingles up Stiles' spine and sparks across his skin. 

And when Derek comes with a pleasured shout and strangled growl, Stiles is already swallowing it, going slow up Derek's body until they're both face to face, sticky and hot, and Derek's face is relaxed, hazel eyes hooded, hands loose as they grip his hips and Stiles is grinning as he cups Derek's face in his hands and smacks a smooching kiss on his glistening lips, whispering 'I love you', and the look Derek gives him tells him all he needs to know, makes his heart swell because he can understand his wolf just as well without words. 

"Go take that shower," and pushes Derek in the direction of the bathroom. 

Derek blinks at him, and sighs, smile curling his lips and grabbing his hand. "Only if you come with," and the two of them go stumbling into the bathroom, and Stiles kicks the door shut on his way in, snaps the towels off the rails. 


End file.
